


Things We Never Discuss

by clingylefou (dearcst)



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Heavy pining, Kid Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 16:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11559408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcst/pseuds/clingylefou
Summary: Lefou looks at Gaston reverently. He wonders when he, himself, will be like Gaston: amazing, tall, and six years old.“Hi, I’m Lefou.”It’s an innocent start.“Wanna play with me?”[In which Lefou and Gaston grow up together, imagining they want to spend the rest of their lives together. Then World War II happens.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Gafou gift exchange!! for @thecheesecracker on tumblr !! I worked with the prompts "kid!gafou, the trope that involves both people hopelessly in love with each other but they dont think the other loves them back, and wartime fic."

_ 1930, New York City, USA _

 

Gaston looks at the boy in front of him: short, fat-cheeked, and radiant. He’s small. He’s beautiful in spirit and in charm. Lefou holds a ball out in front of his own chest with both hands. Towards Gaston. It’s an offering. It’s a gift.

 

“Hi, I’m Lefou.”

 

It’s an innocent start.

 

“Wanna play with me?”

 

The voice is much smaller than Gaston’s voice, matching Lefou’s stature. Gaston laughs and turns his chin up.

 

He says, “Sure,” offhandedly. He looks at the little boy up and down, assesses the challenge, and then says: “But be prepared to lose. I’m going to win, obviously.”

 

Lefou grins in response, wide and ecstatic.

 

“Okay!”

 

The sun is bright and insistent, beating down on them, but they are children and don’t care about the heat. Startlingly, Lefou thoroughly enjoys the game.

 

Everyone he’s played with before have been so boring. It would always die down to a simple passing of the ball back and forth. It would become tedious, and nothing at all like a game.

 

Lefou looks up at Gaston, and sees someone different.

 

Gaston scrunches up his face in a delicate way, pulls his knee backward, and kicks the ball back sharply and with a shout. Each pass back and forth receives he same attention, the same, vigor, the same passion; and through the hours they play, Gaston never loses his energy. He never slumps his shoulders like Tom yesterday. He never says that he’s tired after fifteen minutes like Dick. He never sits down for a break like Stanley. Through the hours they play, children come and go on the field. Gaston never loses his breath.

 

He gives the game everything he’s got.

 

Lefou has never been so challenged before. It’s exhilarating, and he loves every second of it.

They kick the ball back and forth, they shout at each other, and although there isn’t any sort of rules in place, Gaston claims victory.

 

He takes three steps back. Looks Lefou in the eye. Then, he runs forward with all of his might and sends the ball flying.

 

Lefou takes in a slow breath, turning his head upwards to see the ball soar over his head.

 

“I’ve won!” Gaston shouts, arms flung over his head. The sun bows behind his fingers, and Gaston’s hair is illuminated in the glow of the setting sun.

 

Lefou, on the other end of the field, smiles and claps as he watches Gaston’s chest heave up and down. It’s a sudden revelation that Gaston is  _ strong _ . He is brave and powerful. Smart and cunning and victorious.

 

Walking forward, he says, “My name is Gaston, by the way,” between huffs of breath.

 

Gaston is nothing Lefou has ever seen before, and everything he’s ever dreamt. With those words, Gaston pulls at Lefou’s heart as one pulls a stray thread from the hem of a sweater. The sweater unravels and unravels and unravels. It’s a soft feeling, a warm feeling, a sharp feeling. It’s unfamiliar because it’s the first time Lefou’s ever felt it. Years later, he would know that at five years old, he’d felt the beginnings of love.

 

Gaston demands, “Well? What’s your name?”

 

“Lefou,” he says, “I already told you.”

 

Gaston shrugs as though Lefou had just told him the color of the sky. He continues to walk alongside Lefou albeit in silence. The quietness is not disconcerting. It is comfortable. It is right. Lefou looks at Gaston, and sees something worth looking at.

 

Their ball is far into the trees, far ahead in their sight. They walk towards it slowly.

 

In effort to resume conversation, Lefou says, “You’re really good at playing ball.”

 

Gaston says: “Of course I am. I’m good at everything.”

 

In all honesty, Lefou can’t find reason to object. It’s believable. He looks at a boy a year older than him and sees a boy much wiser and better. He can’t imagine Gaston failing at anything.

 

“You’re not too bad either, though,” Gaston allows, and walks forward to link their arms together. “We’re going to play together a lot more now.”

 

“ _ Really?” _

 

Gaston nods once: quick, determined.

 

Nearing the ball, Gaston sprints forward to get to it first. He grabs it, holds it out to Lefou, and grins as wide as his face allows.

 

Lefou smiles. “Thanks.”

 

The sun has set too far already, and they are masked in darkness; though there is a quiet sort of light, the sort of light that happens when it’s not quite night. Lefou can see the planes of Gaston’s face if he looks hard enough. He doesn’t want to say goodbye.

 

“Do you go to Villeneuve Elementary School, too?” Gaston asks suddenly.

 

Lefou responds, “Yeah,” and the word floats above their heads. “I’m five years old.”

 

Gaston scoffs. Turns his chin up.

 

“I’m  _ six _ ,” he brags.

 

Lefou looks at him reverently.

 

“Cool,” he breathes.

 

He wonders when he, himself, will be like Gaston: amazing, tall, and six years old.

 

It’s airy. Quiet. Then, Lefou hears his mom calling him to say goodbye, and sees the silhouette of his dad standing with her. It’s time to go home.

 

Gaston turns to Lefou, and presses his lips tightly together. Lefou looks down because he doesn’t want to say goodbye.

 

His mom calls him again, this time accompanied by another voice calling for Gaston.

 

So begrudgingly, Gaston huffs out, “Bye, Lefou.” He leaves.

 

A few steps ahead, he turns around and looks at Lefou again. Then he turns back around, crosses his arms briefly, and runs the rest of the way to his mom.

 

“Bye,” Lefou says absently.

 

His mom walks home with him. She says things, but Lefou doesn’t entirely listen. His mind is buzzing and alive in replay of everything Gaston. Lefou has been swept off his feet. He smiles, sighs happily, daydreams. He loves Gaston’s pretty brown hair. He loves Gaston’s strong legs and how they fling kickballs so very high. He loves Gaston’s eyes and his voice and his lips, how they form words Lefou hasn’t heard before.

 

He stays awake at night, hands tangled in his blanket, thinking about him. He will think about him until the sun rises again. To say Lefou spends his childhood in awe Gaston would be untrue.

 

He spends his life.


	2. Chapter 2

“Lefou!”

 

Gaston jogs to catch up with his best friend. They are fourteen and thirteen years old, walking through the hallway and racing to class. Neither of them have much urgency for learning itself, but only to accompany one another through the process. Lefou drags in step, turning his attention backwards just as Gaston grabs his arm.

 

“Hey,” Gaston says. His voice is tender in the boldest of ways. He grabs Lefou’s arm, grins, and says: “Happy birthday!”

 

“Thanks,” Lefou’s heart builds under the attention.

 

Gaston is a head taller than Lefou, and Lefou doesn’t mind. He finds it comforting, Gaston’s towering nature, and as they walk, Lefou pays special attention to the way Gaston’s hair curls by his shoulders. He’s talking about sports and games and Superman comics, everything Lefou loves too.

 

Lefou can’t explain it, the way his face flushes whenever Gaston smiles at him. It is like the sun coming from behind the clouds. It is like summer rain. It is like revisiting a favorite novel. Warm. Familiar. And Lefou wishes each time that the feeling doesn’t fade, doesn’t lose hold.

 

Gaston nudges his shoulder. “We still on for tonight, or do you have special birthday plans?”

 

Lefou says, “Yeah.” The syllable lifts in excitement. “Radio show is still on. My parents are actually out of town until tomorrow, so no. No plans.”

 

“Awesome!” Gaston grabs Lefou where his neck meets his shoulder and pulls him closer. “I mean, who better to spend your birthday with than me?”

 

Who better, indeed?

 

They lapse into wordless conversation, the type of conversation where they’re both thinking quickly, talking in their heads and speaking through their spirits. They both contemplate the night to come. It’s a frequent thing they do, going to one another’s house to listen their favorite radio show. Radios are the most amazing thing, Lefou thinks to himself, and since their family got one a few years ago, he’s wanted to do nothing but sit and listen. And since he loves radio so much, he loves to share it with Gaston.

 

Gaston continues conversation, and Lefou listens like nothing else. He cares not for the topic, for the meaning, for the substance, if only Gaston would never stop speaking. Quite thankfully, Gaston rarely stops. Some find it tedious. Some find it obnoxious. Lefou finds it lovely. It’s like the radio, it’s like music. He loves Gaston’s company, loves his voice.

 

What does Lefou like about Gaston? He’s asked by a lot of people. But the answer isn’t something Lefou entirely knows. It’s like the depths of the ocean, or the beauty of it, or the length. Gaston is a persona Lefou admires. He is brave and strong in spirit. He is bold in voice and unyielding in nature. Lefou is enraptured by it. He loves it.

 

He is friends with Gaston because he’s entranced by him, Lefou acknowledges, as he watches Gaston’s lips form word after word. The noise around them numbs and dulls. It becomes static.

 

As they walk, Lefou realizes Gaston has long since passed his own class.

 

He interrupts Gaston’s ramblings with: “Don’t you have Mr. Maurice this class?”

 

Gaston stops, startled that Lefou had spoken. But then he softens, and responds, “I’m just walking you to your class first.”

 

“You’ll be late,” Lefou worries.

 

But Gaston only shrugs. “I don’t care.”

 

Warmth blooms in Lefou’s chest. He holds his hands to his chest as if to touch the feeling, feel it slip through his fingers and coil around his heart. It’s something that happens with higher and higher frequency the more days that pass, and Lefou can’t understand it. Gaston can say the simplest thing, smile in the slightest way, and Lefou’s cheeks flush and his hands sweat and his heart bursts. Does he want the feeling to go away? Does he want the feeling to wrap around him and never leave him?

 

It's incredible how Gaston treats Lefou. He is gentler, kinder with him. Gaston is the type of kid everyone watches from a distance, the type of kid who is untouchable. Gaston is brutish, impatient, and quick to anger. He’s a bully, one that Lefou doesn't quite realize is a bully because of how kind Gaston treats him in particular.

 

Lefou takes in a sharp breath. He halts quickly and abruptly in front of the classroom.

 

“Bye.” The word shoots from his mouth.

 

Gaston smiles, and the feeling comes back. He gives a wave and turns around just as the late bell rings. He’s late for class.

 

* * *

 

  


_Boys and girls: your attention please! The Blank Corporation presents a brand new radio program featuring the thrilling adventures of an amazing and incredible personality! Faster than an airplane! More powerful than a locomotive! Impervious to bullets!_

 

_Up in the sky! Look! It’s a giant bird! It’s an airplane!_

 

_It’s Superman!_

 

Gaston bursts into applause as Lefou turns the corner into the living room. He shoves Gaston’s shoulder to fit into the small sofa next to him, and hands Gaston a Tootsie Pop. He unwraps his own. They make eye contact for a moment, and then start laughing as the radio show continues. The rest of the house is empty. It’s Lefou’s favorite part of being alive.

 

They both sit on the sofa with their thighs pressed together, tightly fit and pleasantly snug. There are two other seats across from them, but they’ve always sat on the sofa together since they first met. Lefou’s mom and dad took the other seats. For Gaston to come over for the radio program and then choose a different seat- It would feel wrong.

 

They make comments and tell jokes, tell false narration of the story when the static of the radio becomes overbearing and difficult. Some moments they are quiet as they listen with great intent. Some moments they are loud and silly. Every moment they are happy.

 

The night drags on, and the sun is entirely gone from the sky. Lefou is stricken with sudden nostalgia from when they first met. His heart is weighed down. His skin prickles. He looks over to Gaston. The noise of the radio fades and fades until it’s nothing but white noise, and Gaston stands up to stretch. It’s nearing the end of their time together, Lefou can understand that much.

 

Gaston has a beautiful face. Lefou feels alive when he’s with him. He wants nothing more than to relive this night for the rest of his life.

 

He prays the sun doesn’t rise. He prays Gaston doesn’t leave.

 

Lefou sits there, watching as Gaston’s muscles shift under his clothes. His throat feels tight. He doesn’t understand his own body’s reactions. He wants to say something, but he can’t. Gaston bids him goodbye with an amiable wave, and then walks out the door. Just like he does every Saturday night. And every Saturday night, Lefou holds himself back from asking Gaston to stay the night.

 

The static of the radio is deafening, or maybe that’s Lefou’s heart. The feeling is back. Lefou goes to sleep feeling like that.

 

* * *

 

 

Late at night, his mom and dad get home. Lefou is barely aware, deep in sleep. The door opens the slightest bit, and his mom peeks her head into the room. She says goodnight, gentle and kind, brushing hair away from his face. Lefou’s breath comes softer, and he is starting to wake albeit not showing any effort to move.

 

His mom steps away, and the door closes again. Lefou hears soft whispers outside the door, loving whispers, promises of whispers. There’s shuffling of feet as his parents tangle in each other’s arms, swaying to music that wasn’t really there. It’s a comfortable quietness like a different type of lullaby that doesn’t need sound or lyrics.

 

His dad places a kiss on his mom’s temple, and they stay like that, outside Lefou’s bedroom door in the ease of night and bliss of quietness. Their words are muffled through the door; they’re saying something like I love you but in more words than that. Soon they go to bed, and Lefou smiles in his sleep. He thinks of Gaston, and decides that one day he wants to be like his parents and hold Gaston in his arms, whispering I love you while their children sleep soundly in their beds.

 

* * *

 

  


Gaston is not the best in academics, he will tell you that much, but that doesn’t matter because Gaston is the absolute best at everything else that he does.

 

First things first: Gaston loves that Lefou is his friend. It’s a strange sort of relationship because Lefou praises him making it reasonable to assume Lefou sees him as something more than, better than, greater than human; but then Lefou wrecks that inference by berating Gaston for doing something like littering or needlessly insulting someone. If anyone else were to correct Gaston, Gaston would probably punch them. Several times.

 

But when Lefou does it, it’s inexplicably alright. Gaston doesn’t question it.

 

Now Gaston is especially awful at algebra, which is why when Lefou finds his latest test with a red marker scribbled all over it, he doesn’t even flinch when Lefou lets out an astonished and somewhat disappointed, _“What?”_

 

He turns to Gaston, paper in hand, and says, “Gaston what is this?”

 

Part of Gaston wants to say something like _What are you, my mom?_ but he doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs. School doesn’t really matter anyway. It isn’t like he’s going for a higher education; he’s getting through high school for his parents, and then he wants to enlist in the army. The honor, the bravery, the greatness of it all-- Gaston has been thinking about it since he was old enough to know what it was.

 

He knows very little of Lefou’s family, only that his father fought in the Great War. Lefou doesn’t talk about it, and for the life of him, Gaston cannot figure out why. If Gaston knew someone who fought a war and came back, someone who fought a war and won, he would never stop talking about it.

 

But Lefou doesn’t. So Gaston doesn’t either. What Lefou doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and with the peace brought after the Great War, there’s such small chance they’ll get caught in another war. Telling Lefou would be asking him to needlessly worry.

 

“You need to get tutoring,” Lefou shatters Gaston’s daydreaming. He turns to test over in his hands, flipping through.

 

Gaston tosses his hands in a waving motion. “Then you’ll help me.”

 

Lefou, startled, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t _know_ algebra, is what he should say. He can’t tutor him in something he doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t say that. Because Gaston looks at him like this is one thing Lefou can do for him, and Lefou wants to do everything for him.

 

Gaston though, thinks Lefou is smart because of how he speaks, how he carries himself, and how he can argue with passion and win. He thinks of words, twists them like knives, and can accomplish anything. Admittedly, Lefou is smarter, thinks things through, and considers logic before making a decision. That doesn’t make him book-smart, though.

 

With a feeling this is all going to go horribly wrong, Lefou agrees. They go through the rest of their day, and the entire time, Lefou tries to sort of maybe possibly accomplish the goal of learning algebra. (He doesn’t).

 

They decide on the day before the test to study together because they’re both procrastinators.  They’re supposed to be studying, but neither of them have really done their work. Lefou sits at home while Gaston sits next to him; their eyes meet every other second, and then dances away. Lefou’s lips curl in a small smile. Gaston smiles just like he does everything else in life: grand, unrelenting, and strong.

 

Lefou makes special note of everything he loves. He loves the color of Gaston’s hair and how it falls over his shoulders. He loves the curve of Gaston’s lips, and the point of his nose. He loves Gaston’s broader shoulders, the blemishes in his skin, the scattered and lost patterns of freckles.

 

Gaston moves closer. Their shoulders brush. They share another glance, and Lefou’s eyes lose focus on his textbook.

 

They stay there like that, in dangerous heat, in undefined atmosphere, and though they both end up failing the exam, they do have fond memories of the study session.

 

* * *

 

 

_(Lefou loves Gaston. He wants to believe Gaston can love him, too.)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gaston loves girls.

 

Gaston gets his first girlfriend at thirteen years old. It’s something messy and apathetic, and it contradicts everything Lefou thought he knew about love. It’s quick, and ends just as quickly as it started.

 

He walks her into the room and wears her like a bracelet on the arm, and smiles at everyone in the way he does when he’s just won a football game. Later, he pushes her aside.

 

When she’s gone, another girl takes her place, and another after that. Lefou watches girls come and go likes waves in the ocean. Some have blonde hair, some have brown, some have black. Some of them are short, some of them are tall. Some like to sing, some like to dance, some like to draw. They’re all so different, Lefou has difficulty imagining what type of girl Gaston likes. _Perhaps_ , Lefou thinks to himself, _he likes anything that breathes and wears a skirt_.

 

“Lefou, haven’t you ever wanted to get a girlfriend?” Gaston asks one day. They’re sitting outside alone, and it’s nearing sunset.

 

Lefou gives a shrug. “I don’t see the appeal.”

 

Gaston smiles.  “They’re pretty,” is what he says.

 

Pretty?

 

Lefou looks at Gaston, and pauses. He considers it. Gaston, Lefou decides, is very pretty.

 

“They smell nice, and they have soft skin,” Gaston says. “They kiss you and say sweet things.”

 

Lefou doesn’t say anything, but he inhales deeply through his nose. His eyes stay on the skin of Gaston’s arm. He wonders what it would feel like to kiss Gaston, to say sweet things to him.

 

They sit there.

 

Inevitably, Gaston continues: “Mom says I’m supposed to have a girlfriend by now anyway.”

 

It is utterly quiet, as if Gaston is narrating their lives and Lefou is just there for the ride. For the most part, such a description would not be inadequate. But what could Lefou say? He doesn’t want a girlfriend. He’s completely, utterly uninterested. Why subject himself to something that he doesn’t want? He doesn’t want to touch girls, he doesn’t want to kiss girls, he doesn’t want to say _I love you_ to girls.

 

He doesn’t want girls. Not the way Gaston does.

 

“When are you gonna get a girlfriend?”

 

Lefou shrugs, feeling a pit in his stomach, somehow feeling heavy and empty at the same time.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaston goes through Beth and Judy and Cheryl and Madison all in one month. He parades them around like jewelry, touches their waist like they’re special, kisses them like they’re worth it. Lefou stands on a shaking floor, as it has started to quake and the walls crumble each time Gaston introduces Lefou to someone new. Animosity kindles quietly inside Lefou’s chest. He feels bitter towards those women despite them being quite nice girls. He doesn't understand it. Madison is kind to him. Madison says good morning and brings him coffee when she has extra. Lefou should like Madison, but he doesn’t. He sees her, gets this tight knot in his chest, and finds an excuse to leave.

 

* * *

 

 

_(Lefou once upon a time believed he and Gaston would live together for the rest of their lives. He doesn’t know what to believe anymore.)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

One day, Gaston begins to set Lefou up on dates. He does it to prove something to himself. If Gaston loves girls, and Lefou loves girls, then they can’t possibly love each other. Loving each other is dangerous, and it goes against everything Gaston’s ever learned. He doesn’t love Lefou, he tells himself, because Lefou loves girls, too. He sets Lefou up on dates.

Lefou hates every single one of them.

They smell like cheap perfume, flowers and honey and vanilla. Their hair is a mess of hairspray and ribbons, their teeth are clean and their voices are tall. They’re everything Lefou has never seen, everything Lefou can objectively respect but nothing he subjectively enjoys. He smiles politely, nods during conversation, and maybe even enjoys their company. But then the girl flutters her eyelashes, leans forward, and expects Lefou to kiss her. Lefou _doesn’t_ want to kiss her.

Lefou spends his entire life trying to figure out what was wrong with him. He asks his mom. She says he’s probably unused to dating, that he should try more of it. That if he goes through enough girls like Gaston he’ll find the one.

For some reason that lurks underneath the tissue of his heart, he doesn’t think his mom is right.

 

He wants to argue, but it isn’t worth the effort. Somewhere inside, he knows the truth. It’s because no girl can live up to Gaston’s legacy.

 

“How did it work with Natalie?” Gaston asks. His voice is stiff, but carries an air of feigned nonchalance. Lefou can never understand it, and is losing the patience to try.

 

“It didn’t,” Lefou says. His voice is flat.

 

Gaston moves to say something, but Lefou stops him before he has a chance. For months, Lefou has been working up the courage to say something about it- the suffocating air between them, the tension, the brilliance, only to have Gaston toss a girl his way. He’s done this too much. He’s made too many excuses.

 

“Stop,” Lefou says, arms crossed over his chest. They’re in the hallway. Kids pass all around them, circling them, invading them. “With all of this,” he gestures with open palms between them.

Gaston takes a step back. “What?” he says.

“With the girls!” Lefou counters. “I don’t like any of them. I never will, okay? So just- Just stop.”

 

Gaston furrows his eyebrows in confusion. What could he possibly be confused about? Lefou feels frustrated with it all. How simple is it that Lefou just doesn’t want Gaston meddling in his life? That he just wants Gaston to be his friend, not shipping him off with any girl he sees passing by? That he wants _Gaston_ , not anyone else?

 

Though as a narrator I should disclose that Gaston doesn’t quite understand anything at all. Gaston is not very bright, there is little he does understand, but Lefou has always been on the short list of things he did. Now, he doesn’t, so he tries to reason. All his life, he’s been told the plan was to find a girl and get married. That’s what’s supposed to happen. There _is_ no other option. So he wants Lefou to date girls to prove something to _himself_. To prove that how he feels about Lefou isn’t real because Lefou likes girls and Gaston also likes girls and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

 

Everything Gaston’s ever said, those things he likes about girls, are actually things he loves about Lefou. He likes Lefou’s face, he thinks he’s pretty. Lefou’s skin is soft when their hands brush, he says sweet things. Gaston wonders, how he wonders, what it is like to kiss him. Wistful thinking crushes Gaston’s ribs and spirals up to his throat. Why wouldn’t Lefou want to date girls?

 

None of this is really relevant, though. Because Lefou doesn’t know any of this.

 

Gaston stumbles over his words, though he tries to consider them carefully.

 

“Because… Is it because you don’t like girls?” Gaston asks in a low voice. It’s tender, unaccusing, curious, hopeful. ( _Hopeful?_ Lefou is being ridiculous)

 

There’s no way anyone around them could have heard Gaston’s question, the hallways have long since cleared and they are completely and utterly alone; Lefou’s face flushes nonetheless. His heart speeds. He feels hot all over. He feels wrong. He hates himself for what he feels, and he’d rather just never feel anything ever again. Because Gaston loves girls, and Lefou loves Gaston.

 

“Maybe I don’t like _anyone_ , Gaston,” Lefou says vehemently, “I’m never going to date girls. I’m never going to date _anyone_.”

 

Gaston stands there, against the wall Lefou has crowded him against. The wall behind Gaston is cold. His heart feels chilled like ice, frail, and ready to break apart. His face is placid, betraying no emotion. He feels rejected, though he never had a chance to ask. Lefou would usually take a moment to ask how Gaston is feeling, that he can tell he’s hurt, that something’s wrong, but Lefou is blind to it right now. He’s aching, everything is he is aching, and the words on his tongue are burning through his lips to the air.

 

The hallway stretches long, emptily, and holds them like ants.

 

“I’m not like you, Gaston,” he says, “I'm not the type to fall in love.”

 

* * *

 

 

Gaston stops setting Lefou up on dates.

 

* * *

 

 

The final bell rings. Kids flood the halls. Buses start up.

 

Lefou is a bit late leaving his last class. He picks up all his papers and notebooks, shoves some of them into his bag, and then carries the rest in his arms. The hallway is cluttered with student work on the walls, posters and fliers; he pulls his books closer to his chest again. He’s still fragile from his last argument with Gaston. He hurts. What he said was a result of anger, frustration, and denial-- but what if it was true? What if he doesn’t love Gaston? What if the real reason he doesn’t like girls is because he just doesn’t love people?

 

All Lefou’s life, every instance he’s known Gaston, it’s all been categorized under the word RISK in a tattered dictionary that everyone tears apart to understand the nature of their relationship. Lefou is kind and holds doors open for people. Gaston kicks the door down and breaks the glass. They are fire and water. They don’t really work as friends, and yet Lefou can’t live his life without him.

 

And probably this second Gaston is with a girl, holding her by the waist and kissing her. Lefou hates it. He hates their pretty faces and he hates that Gaston loves them and not him. He wants to be them, or rather, in their place. He wants Gaston to come to his house with flowers and ask to stay the night. He wants Gaston to be there in bed with him when he falls asleep and when he wakes up.

 

But they can’t. Because Gaston is going to take a wife, and Lefou is going to be alone.

 

Should he, then, hate Gaston? It’s a logical jump in emotion. If he can’t have him, he should avoid him, run from him, hate him.

 

But the prospect of that baffles Lefou. It isn’t even a question because Lefou _loves_ him more than he should. He needs him, feels that he needs him, and the idea of rejecting him for his inability to love him in return seems wrong.

 

And that’s the end of it, the beginning of it, every aspect of the body: inability. Gaston doesn’t love him because Gaston loves girls, not boys. Not Lefou.

 

And should he punish Gaston for being the way he is?

 

Lefou decides then, with it thundering outside, his shoes squeaking on the tile floor of the hallway, that he loves Gaston for the sake of loving him-- not to be loved in return. He wants Gaston in any way Gaston offers himself. By the hairs of his head, by the words of his tongue, by the touch of his handshake. He will ask no more of him.  

 

Soon Lefou’s thoughts are broken by the scattered cheers of kids in the distance, and as he turns a corner, he sees ten or fifteen boys crowding around, grinning and pumping their fists. Some holler, some cheer. Lefou’s steps slow. From the mess escapes a girl with a kind face and pretty brown hair, fleeing the scene quickly with her lips curled downwards in disgust. The girl rushes past Lefou without sparing him a glance. She’s graceful in her step, and determined in her gait.

 

Lefou notices the scene ahead, and grumbles silently to himself. He pulls his books closer to his chest. Lefou hates fights. They glorify bloodshed and justify hate. For the life of him, Lefou cannot understand the excitement of it. Nothing good ever comes from physical disputes. It’s ridiculous. It’s unnecessary, barbaric--

 

“Say it again!”

 

It’s _Gaston_.

 

Lefou drops his things and pushes his way through the crowd. Their shoulders are like bricks, huge and unwavering as if giving their utmost effort to keep Lefou away. He hardly makes it through, and then almost wishes he hadn’t.

 

Gaston is on top of another boy, punching him. Punching him. Punching him.

 

Lefou’s heart feels cold, pained, stiff. Terrified.

 

He collects himself.

 

He pushes Gaston’s shoulder, and says, “Stop it!” abhorrent and raw.

 

Lefou’s breath is caught in his throat. There’s something he should say, something he came here to say, but he can’t remember it. He can’t remember anything.

 

Gaston looks similar. He seemed to have never recognized Lefou until they’d touched; and now Gaston stands disoriented, staring blankly at Lefou.

 

Then there’s a sharp pain to Lefou’s cheek causing him to stagger backwards, the other boy’s making of a bruise blooming on his skin.  

 

“You fucking--!”

 

Lefou has never heard Gaston’s voice like it. It’s tight. It’s a fire, spiraling, gaining mass and growing taller each passing second. It’s frightening. It seems like a lot of things today are frightening. Lefou hates every second of it.

 

He barely catches Gaston’s arm before Gaston is able to hit the other boy again. It’s not the force that stops Gaston, it’s the touch alone. Lefou’s hand is tender and warm against Gaston’s arm, light as a feather, and gentle in nature.

 

“Lefou,” Gaston seethes. “Let me go.”

 

“Stop fighting,” Lefou says again. His voice is tired, like when you wake up after having too many hours of sleep; the kind of tired that feels contradictory to being tired.

 

The other boy is unmoving, bleeding from the nose and the mouth.

 

Gaston flashes a glare at Lefou.

 

They hold eye contact for what seems like an eternity. Gaston’s eyes are dark, electric, and beautiful. They’re always beautiful. They make Lefou’s heart ache ever so slightly.

 

“Deep breaths,” Lefou says, quiet and without force. He’s the epitome of everything Gaston will never be. His voice is like a breeze in the summer heat. It’s gentle. It’s welcoming. It’s good. He says it again, “Come on,” Lefou does it too, ( _in, out_ ,) “Deep breaths.”

 

Gaston’s muscles relax in the arm and fist. His face stays taut.

 

He pulls free of Lefou’s grip and takes a step towards the other boy.

 

“If you ever touch him again,” his voice drips like oil off a countertop, nearing a hot, discarded cigarette, “he can’t stop me from what I’ll do to you.”

 

Gaston turns around and shoves kids in the chest to get out. Lefou spares the boy one last glance; his face is pale, his hands shake. He shakes himself, takes a few steps forward, says, “Excuse me,” small and distracted.

 

He follows Gaston’s path, skipping a few steps to catch up. His heart is racing. It’s beating insistently against his ribcage, knocking bones from their place and jumping up into his throat. He isn't scared, no, this is something else. It's passionate, fiery, vivacious. It bursts out his chest. What is wrong with him? Why does his blood feel hot and his cheeks feel warm and his pulse erratic? He knows the answer, but is unwilling to acknowledge it.

 

He finds Gaston outside. His hair is messy, loose, and tucked behind one ear. His shoulders are tense. Lefou approaches and lays his hand on Gaston’s arm.

 

Gaston quickly turns towards him, on edge.

 

Lefou takes a seat.

 

They don’t talk, but they keep each other company. Lefou wants to ask questions, wants to see if Gaston is okay, check the cut on his lip and the bruise on his temple, but he doesn’t do any of that. Right now, with the fight ringing in their ears, they don’t need more noise. They need each other.

 

So Lefou gives him that much. He sits next to him. His hand falls from Gaston’s arm to his hand, and Gaston doesn’t protest. Boys holding hands shouldn’t happen, should it? Lefou doesn’t know. So he lets his hand rest on top of Gaston’s, almost entertaining the idea that in another world, they can hold hands. The idea, as time crawls by, is increasingly enticing.

 

* * *

 

 

( _Now, Lefou closes his eyes at night, and sees Gaston with a faceless woman in bed, with black eyes and cuts and bruises she doesn't try to mend. Lefou would give anything to see him again. He is alone, though. He has no place in their home.)_

 

* * *

 

After the fight, Lefou and Gaston go home together per Lefou’s request. The door is heavy, and the floors are loud in a way that’s comforting. They always tend to go to Lefou’s home just because it’s Lefou that asks.

 

Lefou’s parents are home, and they’re greeted by his mom’s smile. She fusses over Gaston’s bruises, and Gaston teases that they should have seen the other guy. Lefou watches them, filled with something like fondness and worry; worry for Gaston’s health, fondness for his mother.

 

Lefou’s mom wraps Lefou in a hug next, ruffles his hair, and kisses his temple. His father watches them with a quirk of a smile.

 

They’re both seated at the table, atop are two glasses of lemonade and a box of cigarettes; and Lefou and Gaston move to walk around them and to the backyard.

 

Just before the door closes, Lefou hears his parents teasing each other in light tones. They’re happy, silly, and then his mom walks in close and kisses him. She takes the cigarettes on the table, and says, “I don't like the smell of those things,” in a way that shows she’s serious, but not picking a fight. 

 

His dad apologizes softly, says it’s a habit he’s trying to break if only for her, and stuffs the box in the back of a kitchen drawer.

 

The door closes, and Gaston’s already sitting on the grass, looking at the sky.

 

“Let me see that,” Lefou says, sitting beside him. The sun is beginning to lower near the horizon. Everything basks in a simple, golden glow underneath a surreal cerulean sky.

 

Gaston turns his chin away. “I'm fine,” he says.

 

There’s a beat of silence where Lefou wonders what Gaston’s definition of fine is, and where Gaston wonders what Lefou had been thinking to intervene.

 

At last, Gaston says, “You shouldn't have gotten involved.”

 

Lefou holds his hands close to his chest, itching to reach out, but knowing he can't. He looks at Gaston’s cheeks, red, flushed from the emotional high of a fight. That was hours ago, though, and Lefou leans closer as if to help himself understand Gaston’s mood.

 

He’s never been like this before, unable to face his friend. He's always the strong one.

 

“You shouldn't have been fighting in the first place,” Lefou counters.

 

Gaston’s jaw is set, his body angled away from Lefou’s. He didn't agree.

 

“What were you fighting about?” Lefou tries.

 

Gaston takes a moment, and Lefou lets him. A million scenarios run through his head, but none of them feel right. Instead, he wills himself to wait. Lefou looks at Gaston, at the way his fists clench by his sides, and he turns his head again.

 

“I asked a girl out, Belle, and she rejected me,” he says quietly in his way that is not at all quiet. “He laughed, so I punched him.”

 

“She- She didn’t want _you_ ?” Lefou says, voice pinched in uncertainty. He couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine anyone not wanting Gaston. He couldn’t imagine Gaston standing there, looking as gorgeous as he does, being like he is, being _Gaston_ , the strong, the confident, the perfect-- and then have someone reject him. Lefou is easily blind to Gaston’s every flaw, his arrogance and bigotry and deceitful nature, as easily as a man is colorblind.

 

Lefou sees a perfect man, (as we all are perfect to the right company,) and so as he tries to recreate the scene in his head of any human being rejecting the man he loves, he comes short. Astonished. He can’t understand it.

 

Gaston’s hand is balled into a fist. His teeth show underneath his upper lip, pulled tight and across his face. He doesn't say anything, he can't say anything. He doesn't know defeat. He doesn't know loss.

 

But Lefou does. He thinks of his father, how he came home from The Great War different. Not in body, but in spirit. That's what violence does: it twists you up inside, shreds you into pieces and puts you back together differently. If he were to want anything in the world, it would be for Gaston to remain happy, and with a good heart. Violence does not tolerate goodness.

 

“You shouldn’t fight,” Lefou insists when the conversation falls to their feet. He can't let it go. Can't stand by and let Gaston destroy himself. He goes to continue: “Fighting is--”

 

“Necessary,” Gaston interjects, certain and strong, like he’s said it before, like he’s made a habit of justifying violence. “He was an asshole. I punched him. End of story.”

 

Lefou flashes back, remembers Gaston on top of the other boy. The other person-- defenseless. He remembers Gaston’s aggression and his force.

 

“You did more than that, Gaston.”

 

Gaston clenches his jaw. He’s a hurricane in a bottle, always ready to start something. They fall quiet after that because they’ve reached an impasse. Gaston believed fighting was a necessary evil, something you had to do to get rid of the bad guys and come out on top.

 

But who defines who the bad guy is? That’s the problem. Gaston’s version of a bad guy is anyone who mildly irritates him.

 

“You should really be more considerate,” Lefou says, “Walking away _is_ an option. It’s not cowardice. It’s mercy.”

 

But Gaston sits there. He doesn’t argue. The sun sets further and further, resting atop the horizon longer than it should. It’s beautiful out, wonderful weather, gentle and warm. For a moment Lefou thinks Gaston’s stopped talking for the sake of saving energy, the type of thing you do when you know the other person is wrong but you don't have the energy to prove it.

 

But then something happens, and it feels like ice against Lefou’s chest.

 

Gaston says, “You’re a better man than me,” soft like sandpaper, clear, without direction.

 

It's a rare admission, and it rings verily. It's only nights like these that Gaston is clear-headed enough to understand his own wrongdoing. It goes away in the morning. He becomes inconsiderate again. He becomes Gaston again. But nights like these are spellbound enough to beg the question of morality, and Lefou believes that's enough to know who Gaston really is, who he has the potential to be.

 

They say in danger you choose flight or to fight, and Gaston and Lefou are complementary sides of the same coin; and while Gaston recognizes mercy to be something he _should have_ given, he can't find he regrets it. The only thing he regrets is getting Lefou hurt, and if Lefou never stepped in that never would have happened. Lefou is a better man than Gaston will ever be, that much is true, and Gaston _believes_ it is true. But he cannot fight his nature.

 

Lefou’s throat feels tight. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if he agrees.

 

They’re quiet together, sitting in comfort.

 

Lefou wonders how many fights Gaston has subjected himself to, how many skinned knees and bloodied noses he’s endured. He wonders why Gaston allows that to happen, and how he’s managed to do it for so long without Lefou’s intervention. Lefou turns his head, and sees him: brilliant and gorgeous in the last of the day’s light. He doesn't want him gone, perhaps that is the main motivation for the question. But in actuality, it’s deeper than that. Somehow. He doesn't know, how.

 

“No more fighting?” Lefou says, nudging Gaston’s shoulder.

 

Gaston tilts his head, and his lips move in thought. He’s in a better mood now, a kinder mood. He says: “Fine.” It’s in that amiable sort of tone that carries the message _for you, anything_.

 

And Lefou is glad for it.

 

Gaston is still looking straight at the sky when he adds on, “Only if it’s necessary.”

 

Lefou steals a look at him. His hand lifts and rests atop Gaston’s; he feels the tension begin to ease.

 

“Necessary means they’re going to really hurt you if you don’t hurt them. Alright?”

 

Gaston nods in agreement.

 

Their voices are but whispers. It’s a fragile atmosphere. Quiet. Safe. Warm. Lefou’s thumb runs over Gaston’s knuckles in thought of any violence they might have seen, any violence they will see, and every violence Lefou wants to protect Gaston from.

 

Gaston turns his hand over and their palms touch. Lefou’s heart rips apart at the seams, ruining every kind of defense he held up inside. They’re holding hands now, Gaston moves closer, and they don’t say anything about it. They sit there, closer than friends should sit, bumping knees together and smiling at the setting sun in the sky.

 

Lefou thinks about a lot that night. Perhaps, too much. He thinks about the past and he thinks about the present. He thinks about the future. Every one of them involve Gaston. His mind returns to him like a lost child. He doesn't know who he is without him, or rather, doesn't want to know. Gaston has taught him to be true to himself, he taught him confidence. What could Lefou ever have to teach Gaston? How could Lefou measure up to Gaston’s legacy of companionship?

 

Lefou doesn't know. He is far too humble to know.

 

Lefou thinks about Belle, he thinks about Madison and all the other girls Gaston has dated. He thinks about a future without them. He thinks of a future where he walks home with Gaston by his side, where the door opens and the house is the subtle type of noisy. Where maybe they have a dog or two, where the door is kicked shut and Gaston holds Lefou like he would hold a girl like Belle. He thinks, and his heart grows heavier.

 

Eventually, with the night sky hanging above them, Lefou says, “Belle’s missing out.”

 

There’s a novel underneath his words, something he isn’t quite saying.

 

“Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

 

Gaston looks over, his gaze softer but not quite gentle. Nothing about Gaston is gentle, and yet, Lefou inches forward every chance he gets. It’s like there’s this blaring red DANGER sign, with blinking lights and everything, and Lefou keeps on walking forward.

 

Gaston’s eyes meet Lefou’s and stop there. Most times, Lefou looks away. But this isn’t most times. Right now, with the air so thick and unrelenting, Lefou keeps his gaze. There’s a question in them, there’s a statement.

 

“Everyone seems to throw themselves at me,” Gaston muses, looking away and to the sky. His voice is quiet, subdued; (Lefou would almost say hesitant, but nothing about Gaston is hesitant,) “Everyone except the one that I want.”

 

Lefou’s mouth feels dry, his heart runs wild, but he forces himself to breathe. It feels like they’re both talking in code, saying one thing and meaning another.

 

“There are better girls than Belle,” Lefou says emptily, and again, it feels like he’s saying something else. Like there’s something he wants to say, something like _I would throw myself at you if that’s what I thought you wanted_ , but he can’t say that. He says something else. “You’ll find someone better.”

 

And he’s sure of it. He doesn’t know who Belle is, but she’s out of his mind not to want Gaston. Lefou’s jealous. _He_ wants Gaston, and here this girl Belle is saying _no_.

 

But Gaston doesn’t agree or disagree. He sits there for seemingly the first time in history wordless when Lefou only wants to hear him. His hand inexplicably tightens around Lefou’s. It’s comforting. It’s right.

 

“What would happen,” Gaston says again in that quiet, soft sort of voice that isn’t quiet or soft, “if we just stayed like this?”

 

Lefou’s heart jumps through his chest.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks, words coming out quickly and roughly, tripping over themselves to be heard.

 

But Gaston doesn’t elaborate or say anything else. Lefou almost wants to forget he said anything, but it keeps replaying in his head over and over and over. Every day that passes, Lefou hears it again, and he wonders what Gaston meant. Every night he falls asleep, and Gaston-- instead of staying silent, going back into the house without a goodbye-- instead he pulls Lefou’s arm, pulls him by the sleeve of his shirt, and kisses him.

 

In his sleep, in his dreams, Gaston says, “ _I_ _mean, what if we say screw girls? Who needs girls when you have us?”_

 


	3. Chapter 3

_He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way_

_He had a boogie style that no one else could play_

_He was the top man at his craft_

_But then his number came up, and he was gone with the draft_

_He's in the army now, a-blowin' reveille_

_He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B_

 

Lefou and Gaston are seventeen and sixteen, sitting in a soda shop drinking milkshakes. The radio plays, kids wander about, and there’s chatter all about. Lefou also has a handful of candies he’s picking at. He’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth.

 

It’s just after school, early spring. They don’t talk, not much, not of anything of importance anyway. They’ve started doing this thing where they sit there, quiet, stealing glances and touches. Their hands rest atop the counter, just next to each other, hardly a few centimeters apart.

 

Gaston has a cigarette between his lips. He drags it away slowly and holds it between his fingers. Lefou follows every motion, thinking about how Gaston hasn’t seen very many girls lately, wanting to read into it, wanting to ask Gaston about it, but can never find the courage. Instead, he takes it as a silent victory. A victory over what? He doesn’t quite know, not really. But it feels good to win.

 

Gaston throws a pointed glance at Lefou, something that says they should leave, so Lefou finishes off his milkshake, crushes the rest of the cigarette to toss, and pays. They walk past several couples on dates, and Lefou looks at them with special attention. He wonders what it’s like. He looks at Gaston, already at the door.

 

The bell above the door rings as Gaston opens the door for him, and Lefou jogs to catch up. Gaston is staring at a poster on the wall as he waits for Lefou to come. It’s the one with Uncle Sam, pointing his finger. The one that says _I want YOU for the U.S. Army!_ But when Lefou gets close enough, Gaston turns away and looks at Lefou instead. They leave together.

 

They walk through the streets together making wordless conversation. With each step, they seem to gravitate towards each other, and when at last they’ve passed every busy street, Gaston allows his shoulder to knock against Lefou’s. Lefou allows his hand to brush against Gaston’s. They look at each other, not in the way they used to look at each other. This type of look is new, it’s reserved for how Gaston would look at girls he liked. Lefou doesn’t define it. He doesn’t question it. If he looks too closely, it might start to fall apart.

 

They reach Lefou’s house, and they head inside. There’s no one home, and it smells faintly of cigarette smoke. Lefou can tell Gaston wants to say something about the absence, but Lefou doesn’t want to talk about it. He takes Gaston by the wrist and pulls him up to his bedroom. The door closes with finality, and they look at each other again.

 

They sit, close on the bed. They lean closer together, and Lefou closes his eyes.

 

They still don’t touch, they hold themselves apart in anticipation.

 

Lefou opens his eyes again, and Gaston is looking at him like he hung the stars.

 

They start talking senselessly again, that tedious type of conversation that doesn’t mean anything. It fills the air with syllables and syllables and syllables. None of them are comprehended. Because Gaston talks about the weather and his eyes dart down to Lefou’s lips, and Lefou mentions the rainfall as he leans closer, inches his body to close the gap between them.

 

But they don’t do anything. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

_(Lefou likes to imagine another universe where boys are allowed to kiss boys, where he can hold Gaston in his arms and not be questioned. He dreams of it, and somehow, he knows Gaston does too.)_

 

* * *

 

 

They’re getting milkshakes again. Gaston has chocolate, and Lefou has vanilla. They’re as comfortable as they can be, talking about things neither of them care about to avoid talking about the thing they do care about. The radio is still playing. It crackles in and out of tune. Neither of them make any outwardly sign when a program comes on on discussion of the international conflict going on. Three months ago, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor and declared war on the United States.

 

Lefou looks around the shop and sees empty chairs as evidence of yet another death sentence for a man ripped from his family, thrown into a war none of them could have expected. The last war was called the Great War. The War to End All Wars. Lefou feels tightness in his chest. He is sixteen years old. Gaston is seventeen. He argues with himself that the war will be fought and done while they were still young, fought and done before either of them reached 21, fought and won before the draft had a chance to take Gaston away from him.

 

Gaston, though, follows Lefou’s gaze. He sees the still-warm seats of heroes in capes, gone in battle to return victorious and glorified. He sees himself in the reflection of a napkin holder and dreams of joining them.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaston loves Lefou. In small, subtle ways, he thinks he always has. Lefou is his exception for everything he does. He’s the only person that can get underneath his skin, tease him, taunt him, berate him, correct him. Gaston believes he’s always had a place saved in his life for Lefou that women could never truly fill. It’s like trying to fit a square through a circle-shaped hole. None of those girls could ever give Gaston what he wants in his life. Not like Lefou can.

 

But Lefou doesn’t say anything, so Gaston doesn’t say anything either. They talk about school and they talk about baseball and anything else that isn’t too close to them. Gaston knows that the day they choose to stop being cowards, the day they finally talk about something like the war, like _themselves-_ that day everything would change, and Gaston doesn’t know if that change would be good or bad; so for the first time for as long as he can remember, he doesn’t do anything about it.

 

But he loves him. He loves him as they walk through the streets to Lefou’s home. No one’s home again, and it sets Lefou on edge. Gaston can tell. Whenever they walk through the front doors, Lefou’s shoulders tense, his fingers draw towards his palm, and his breath stutters. So Gaston doesn’t give Lefou time to think about whatever he thinks about when he gets home. Gaston takes his hand and pulls him to Lefou’s bedroom.

 

The door closes, and Lefou looks like he feels at ease again. Gaston smiles.

 

They’re talking again. Lefou is gesturing at the Superman posters in his room, saying something about them, something Gaston only vaguely cares about because it’s Lefou that’s saying it. But mostly he watches the shape of his lips and how they move. Gaston has kissed girls before, and he remembers how it feels. The heat, the messiness, the carelessness. He thinks Lefou’s kisses would be much kinder, much for significant and real.

 

He wants to kiss him. He shouldn’t want to, but he does, because Gaston has never cared for what other people thought of him. He never cared about what society says is right or wrong. He does what he wants, does what he feels, and he goes after it with everything he’s got.

 

He takes a few steps forwards, and Lefou is still talking about Superman. Gaston’s saying things, too, but he doesn’t really recognize what he’s saying. Just the occasional _Yeah_ and _That’s cool_.  They’re getting closer. Gaston is gravitating towards him, and soon they bump shoulders.

 

Lefou stops talking abruptly, and looks up at Gaston. His eyes are wide. They’re really pretty, Gaston decides, and then he decides he really, _really_ wants to kiss him.  

 

Lefou looks soft, in every sense of the word. He says, “Gaston,” in a ghost of a word, and that’s when Gaston leans forward, touches Gaston’s chin, and kisses him.

 

Lefou takes in a sharp breath, and Gaston’s heart beats itself to death. It’s an entirely selfish motion, entirely inconsiderate. That’s what Gaston tells him before Lefou starts kissing back. Everything falls into place right then. Gaston puts his hands in Lefou’s hair, bends awkwardly to kiss him deeper. Lefou’s hands find Gaston’s shoulders and slowly move to hang loosely behind his neck.

 

Gaston kisses to keep him, kisses to have him in every way. Every kiss he’s ever given another person feels toxic now, and Lefou’s kisses are the only antidote. He kisses him and kisses him. He never wants to stop.

 

Lefou is the first to pull back, and Gaston leans forward in a belated chase. Lefou’s lips are spit slicked and red, parted, and gorgeous. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are heavy and questioning.

 

Lefou surges forwards and kisses Gaston again. Gaston stumbles backwards, and his back hits the wall. Lefou is the weight of everything he’s ever wanted hitting him in the face. Gaston holds him like he’s afraid of breaking him, like he’s afraid Lefou will fall through his fingers like sand. Lefou, amazingly, kisses back. It’s everything Gaston has ever dreamt of, and nothing he’s ever expected. It’s like seeing fireworks for the first time: terrifying and awe-inspiring.

 

With his hands tangled in Lefou’s hair, he thinks about what they’re supposed to do. What men are supposed to do, what humans are supposed to do, and whether Heaven or Hell would claim them for this. But Gaston acts on his own terms and writes them himself if there’s nothing to act on. He decides that something that feels this right is _supposed_ to happen. He decides that heaven ever did exist, it exists in Lefou.

 

* * *

 

 

Gaston spend the night at his home. They don’t have anything to do tomorrow.

 

It’s too late at night or too early in the morning. They’re in bed together fully clothed, and Gaston feels something tight in his throat. They still haven’t talked, but Gaston has never been one for talking his way out of things.That’s Lefou’s thing. And since Lefou still hasn’t said anything, everything must be alright, right?

 

Lefou, though, wonders if this is entirely physical. He wonders the severity of it. He wonders the reality of it. He wonders how long it will last because it obviously _can’t_. Because Gaston has to marry a girl and Lefou has to be alone. That’s the only way the world will make sense of it. Boys don’t kiss together, don’t live together, don’t love together. Gaston has always loved girls, and that won’t end. Their time together is limited because Gaston doesn’t really love Lefou, Lefou decides, and talking about it will make it end sooner.

 

So they just don’t talk about it until morning.

 

Gaston wakes up early. He admires the way Lefou’s hair falls over his face, and fights the impulse to brush it away. He doesn’t want to wake Lefou up.

 

He ventures downstairs for no reason in particular, maybe to make some breakfast or bring Lefou coffee for when he wakes, (with more milk than actual coffee, Gaston thinks to himself, because Lefou has an awful tendency for sweet foods).

 

But he doesn’t get halfway down the staircase. He stops.

 

Lefou’s mom is downstairs, drinking coffee by an open window in tattered work clothes. It’s a warm morning, nothing like cold winters. There are birds outside, singing, flying where no one can see. Lefou’s mom’s hair is a mess. Her face is worse, sunken in places a woman of her age should not have to endure.

 

She puts down her coffee, and puts a cigarette between her lips.

 

Gaston feels like a trespasser for some odd reason despite knowing Lefou’s family since he was six years old. He’s seventeen now, looking someone he considered to be a second mother like she’s a stranger. In a lot of ways, she is.

 

He doesn’t have any time to make a decision. Lefou’s mom is gone in the time it takes Gaston to take a deep breath. The front door closes with absurd volume, more than is truly there. Gaston follows Lefou back to his room.

 

Lefou is half asleep, though he’s waking slowly. He’s always been a bit of a grumpy riser, and for that reason Gaston normally gives him a half hour before engaging in conversation. Lefou smiles at him sleepily, and though Gaston should say literally anything else at this point in time, he can’t help it. He’s been wondering for a year now.

 

He does something that’s ridiculously stupid.

 

“Where’s your dad?”

 

Lefou’s smile drops like cement into water. His face is guarded, betraying no emotion. The question hangs in the air just long enough for Gaston to realize he’s said something wrong; he does that quite a bit, and he’s used to the feeling.

 

Gaston is prepared for anything else in the world than what Lefou says, “He’s dead,” flat and betraying no emotion.

 

Gaston feels shaken. He wonders for how long, and how he didn’t know. He wonders how long his mom has been like this, and realizes he’s never asked about Lefou’s family in years. He’s never asked much of anything. He wonders of how much of Lefou’s life Gaston remains unaware. He wants to say he’s sorry he never asked of him. He wants to say it’s going to be alright but he knows it’s not because it _isn’t._ This isn’t a recent event, Gaston can tell that much. He wants to say he’s sorry for neglecting to notice.

 

But instead of any of that, Gaston breathes out a dumbfounded, “What?”

 

And it’s like all of their wordless conversations fall to their feet in an instance. It shatters.

 

“He’s dead!” Lefou yells because there’s no one downstairs to hear him. “That’s what war _does_ , Gaston! It kills people!”

 

Gaston has never seen Lefou like this. He’s always level-headed and kind.

 

“He was drafted last year. Didn’t make it two months on the field.”

 

Gaston stares blankly, as if nothing Lefou was saying was reaching his ears though it was. Every word.

 

Lefou continues: “And now my mom works more hours than there are in a day to keep us from losing our house, she hardly looks at me anymore because I look like him, I can hardly look at _myself-_ ” like his words are water and the dam has broken. His voice shakes worse on every word, falls through the cracks of his throats and fights to be heard after so long being suppressed.

 

“But he…” is all Gaston can make out. His mind is muddily continuing _But he won the Great War. The first war._

 

“War is a _lottery_ , Gaston,” Lefou shouts; he throws his arm across the air in front of them. His eyes are red, shining from tears unshed.

 

He says: “Making it out means you’re lucky, not that you’ve singlehandedly defeated the villain. He was lucky the first time, and he died the second.”

 

Lefou gestures wildly to the posters in his room, taking staggering steps backwards. Gaston watches him incomprehensibly.   

 

“Heroics? Glory?” he says, “That happens in comics and radio shows and fiction. In real life, war kills you. It’s not heroics. It’s not glory. And it’s _never_ _victory_. There’s always a price, and not one you want to pay.”

 

Gaston feels each word slap him across the face, feels each word burn his skin on impact. He’s never seen Lefou so uncontrolled like this. He’s never seen him hurt like this. In a way, it's terrifying. He doesn't know what to say. He wants to comfort him. He wants to tell him he’s right and the world is unjust and cruel. That war was wrong to take his father from him.

 

But he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t believe any of that.

 

Gaston believes every soldier is a hero, and every life taken means another man home is safe and alive. It’s definitely a price that’s worth payment, and it _is_ victory.

 

“That’s not true,” Gaston says against his better judgement. He doesn’t have much of a filter. “Because they fight, because your father fought, we are alive. Everyone we see every day is _alive_ because of them. They fight for our freedom, for our rights and liberties, for our _life_. Fighting in war is necessary, it is heroic, it’s--” he stops himself. His first instinct is to not say anything more, but Gaston has never had much self-control. Inevitably, he finishes: “It’s worth it. It’s worth the price.”

 

Lefou doesn’t say anything for the longest time. He looks at him, face like stone, frightened and cold.

 

Then he says in numb realization: “You want to enlist.”

 

There it is: one of the two things they’d made an unspoken vow never to discuss.

 

And hearing the words out loud sets Gaston on fire in ways he’s never known. Yes. _Yes_. He does, he wants to fight with his entire heart, his entire soul. He wants to defend his country. He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything.

 

Then Gaston says it, too. To taste the words in his mouth, feel them roll of his tongue, feel the sincerity of it, the brutal honesty.

 

“Yes,” he breathes. “I do. I want to enlist.”

 

It’s then that the tears start to fall. Seeing it feels like talons ripping through the skin of Gaston’s heart. The drops cling to Lefou’s chin. His shoulders shake in quiet protest, and he doesn’t blink.

 

Then he starts to shake his head, such small motion, stuttering motion.

 

“No,” he says in a whisper. “No. No. You can’t do that.”

 

Gaston knew this would happen. It's why he never brought it up, and somewhere Lefou always knew too. Gaston can't help it, and now that he’s said it out loud, he can’t contain it. He _needs_ to serve.

 

Lefou strides forward, and twists his hands in the front of Gaston’s shirt.

 

“Gaston, you can’t do that,” he says, voice shaking, “You can’t do that to me.”

 

Gaston’s mouth opens, and he tries to say something, but the words don't come.

 

“You can't go!” Lefou protests, yelling, tears cutting through his cheeks.

 

And Gaston, too, erupts.

 

“It isn't right!” he shouts, stepping backwards, and gesturing with his arm to door. “It isn't right that men are dying to protect me, and I’m here sitting on my ass doing nothing! When I could be helping.”

 

Lefou shakes his head through every word.

 

“When I could be fighting. With them,” Gaston starts to walk forward again. He takes Lefou’s shaking hands in his own. “It's my duty. I have to. I _need_ to.”

 

“Please don’t,” Lefou says brokenly.

 

Gaston pulls Lefou into his arms, touches his hair and runs the tips of his fingers down Lefou’s back.

 

Lefou cries.

 

“Every time they call someone’s number,” Gaston finds himself saying, “That’s another man that doesn’t want to go that’s forced to.”

 

Gaston pulls back, holds Lefou’s face in his hands.

 

“I want to. I _want_ to go fight, Lefou,” he says. “And what if it were you? Would you want to be the next number called?”

 

Lefou grips Gaston’s wrists, holds them close to his own face. He’s stopped arguing. He knows it’s a lost cause.

 

Lefou takes in a shuddering breath. He’s sixteen years old, and in the arms of the love of his life, he knows he’s about to lose him.

 

Lefou thinks to himself that Gaston is too young. That he shouldn’t go. He’ll be the youngest there, seventeen years old, and staring down the barrel of a gun.

 

“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Lefou says, half to himself, and in a soft voice. His throat is sore. His eyes hurt from crying.

 

Gaston pulls him back into his arms, and strokes his hair.

 

“I’ll write to you,” Gaston says, and Lefou starts crying again because hearing that makes it more real.

 

He nods, pushing his face into Gaston’s chest.

 

* * *

 

 

They fall asleep in the same bed again. Lefou holds the fabric of Gaston’s shirt so tight in his grip. He curls in close, as if to anchor him to the house for the rest of their lives. If such a feat were possible, he would have done it.

 

* * *

 

 

_(When Lefou goes to sleep, he dreams that he is alone. Gaston isn’t there for an entirely new reason now. It frightens him more than he can say.)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gaston leaves on a Monday. It’s a gorgeous day by every account. It’s springtime. Flowers have started blooming. Everything is wet with dew, and the sun has laid gentle gaze upon the grass. Gaston is standing there with a light bag, things he’ll take with him. Lefou doesn’t ask what’s inside. He has half a mind to ask to jump in there, too.

 

In the middle of the night, before the first light of day, alone; Lefou considered joining, too. To follow Gaston, keep behind him, beside him, in front of him. Fight with him, fight _for_ him.

 

But there would be several problems, the most prominent being that Lefou is one year younger than Gaston, and so he isn’t old enough to enlist. If he were to wait to enlist, he’d most likely be somewhere entirely different, fighting for a cause he didn’t believe in all the while missing Gaston. And a third reason lurks beneath his skin: it would break his mom.

 

So Lefou doesn’t go. He stands there, watching helplessly as Gaston, too, stands there. Things they’ve never said buzz around them-- irritatingly, distractingly-- like flies too small to be caught but too prominent to be ignored. Not for the first time, Lefou considers saying something. Something along the lines of their relationship they’ve never discussed. Something like _I’ll wait for you. There’s only ever been you. I’ll wait._

 

But he doesn’t say anything. If he never said anything before, it wouldn’t be fair to say something now when it’s too late to do anything about it.

 

So they wait under the overhead of a bus stop together. Gaston stands there, for the first time in his life, without a word to say.

 

Gaston says, “I’ll see you later,” in a boisterous whisper.

 

Lefou wants to say something, anything, but more than that, he wants to yell that there won’t be a later.

 

In the end, the bus comes before Lefou can say anything. It comes to a stop achingly loud, screeching like everything Lefou can’t say stuffed into a blender and set to puree.

 

Gaston gives him a wave, and then he’s gone. Lefou stays at the bus stop for a few moments more.

 

By nightfall, he goes home.


	4. Chapter 4

> _ Lefou, _
> 
>  
> 
> _ I’ve only just arrived, and already I want to write to you. I miss you already, and I don’t know if that’s because I’m thinking of how much I will miss you in weeks to come, or if I’m truly that lost already. Nonetheless, training isn’t as difficult as they say. That, or I’m just that good at it!  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ I don’t know what I’m supposed to be saying in these letters. Should I go into detail explaining everything I do and see? Would you want that? Though, more than anything I do want to know what you’re doing, of course.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ I’ve never been the writing type. How long are these things supposed to be? _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Until next week. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Gaston. _


	5. Chapter 5

Lefou spends his days trying not to think of a helpless war, and it’s an impossible task. The radio blares every second with war news, breaks regular programming with draft numbers, and everything about the situation is wrong. Lefou never wanted this, never wanted violence to reign supreme over everyone he’s ever had for a family.

 

But here he is, applying for a factory job to help his mom with the bills, to help the war effort since he’s too young to enlist too. God knows what it’d do to his mom to lose her husband and her son to the same cause. For that reason, he can’t bring himself to enlist, too, and run after Gaston’s spirit.

 

Gaston does write to him. He writes about how camp is, how challenging training is, ( _ a fun challenge, _ Gaston had written,) and how much he looks forward to winning like there’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll be coming home. Lefou prays to God he’s right.

 

He waits every day by the mailbox for another letter, and reads it over and over until the next one arrives. He hides the letters somewhere in his room where no one can find them and try to throw them away or try to read them. Lefou guards them jealously, like this is part of Gaston only he can see. Only he can read. Spelling mistakes and all.

 

* * *

 

Lefou finds it difficult to do anything but wait for the letters. He lives for them nowadays. He works. He eats what he can. He sleeps as long as he’s able.

 

And he reads a new letter every two weeks.

 

He sits alone in the soda shop that’s thinning out more and more each day; drinks a milkshake, and eats candies.

 

He dreams a fantasy of a dream that Gaston will come home safe.

 

Ultimately, he believes that’s all it is. A fantasy.

 

* * *

 

 

Time stands still, really. Lefou can’t move on in life. He feels like Gaston took it with him when he left. 

 

Narrative is thin. 

 

Words are scarce. 

 

They repeat themselves as if being reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and reread and re


	6. Chapter 6

_ Lefou, _

 

_ I think of you all to often. Is that decent? I hardly know anymore. _

 

_ You are right though. War is nothing at all glorious or holy. It’s gruseome and bloody and terrifying. I must have written a hundred letters before this one, but I feel like i can hardly remember how to use a pen. _

 

_ I'm sorry it's been so long. Ive been so busy.  _

 

_ I think of you at home when it gets difficult. I think of coming home and loving you. Like that one night. do you think of that night as often as I do? _

 

_ Im somewhere in africa right now, and its so much hotter than new york, I’ll tell you that. Its awful, the sights, and amazing others. if only you could see the sunset on the mediteranien sea. Its beautiful. Do you remember that time we sat on the roof of your house and watched the sun set, thinking nothing could ever top that right there? I have a feeling if you saw this sunset, you’d say it wins. _

 

_ but i dont know. your not here so it makes the sight not as good.  _

 

_ I feel like i coud write forever, but ive never been much of a writer. Im better at talking. You know that. _

 

_ Tell me about your days. What have you been doing? I need something to take my mind off of all this. Tell me a story. Tell me everything about you, the things we never talk about but somehow know are there. _

 

_ For example, we never talk about love. i wonder every day if you could ever learn to love a beast like me. here i am, shooting men in the back as they run away, shooting them every day. I think about how you wouldnt love me for the man i am when im here much less love a man at all. _

 

_ We never talk about that. What you love. I want to know what you love. _

 

~~_ I love you. Did you know that? that every day i can get by just by thinking th _ ~~

 

_ write soon. _

 

_ Yours, _

 

_ G _


	7. Chapter 7

Lefou seals each letter he writes very slowly, touching the corners and holding it to his chest as if he could convey sincerity through the motion. He writes truthfully because there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that Gaston won’t ever come back, and Lefou won’t have to face the consequence of his words.

 

So he writes, he seals the letter slowly, and holds it to his chest longer than usual.

 

He waits by the mailbox.

 

He thinks about how he loves Gaston. Gaston is confident. Gaston is strong. Lefou looks at Gaston and sees someone better, someone worth becoming.

 

But in truth, Lefou is everything Gaston is not.

 

Gaston is nothing friendly, kind, or loving. Gaston is brutish, reliant on fists and temper and undeserved authority; and he does not change with age, not really. Where Lefou is patient, Gaston is rash. Where Lefou is kind, Gaston is crass. Where Lefou is right, Gaston is wrong. In theory, they should repel each other. But they don’t.

 

They, two opposite poles, are attracted to one another. Lefou has a secret yearning for measured risks and danger. Gaston has a hidden love or being loved. They fit together. For years, they fit together.

 

Lefou is soft-hearted. His heart bends like thin plastic, and bounces back unharmed. He loves everyone he meets, and is relentless in showing it. He loves everything about the earth, everything it produces. He loves stories and love itself. He loves his friends. He loves himself. It’s difficult to understand though, because he also loves Gaston. He loves all of these things and more, all in different ways.

 

Are there different types, then? Reserved like seats in an expensive restaurant? Love is a strange, and applicable to so many things.

 

When Gaston smiles at him, Lefou loves him. When Gaston laughs with him, Lefou loves him. 

 

When Gaston walks by him and shouts Lefou’s name with his hands cupped around his lips—Lefou loves him. When Gaston kisses him. Lefou loves him.

 

In contrast, Gaston has a sponge-like heart. He wants to take and take and take without ever giving anything up. He doesn’t love much. Love is a warm feeling that runs through your veins. It feels like cold water running down a dry throat. It’s prominent, invasive, and strong in the quietest of ways. Gaston does not love as Lefou loves. He likes things that pleasure him, things that appreciate him, things that validate him. He likes things he can manipulate and pick at and choose parts of and possess.

 

Gaston loves Lefou in his own way, and Lefou loves the way Gaston does everything. Gaston’s type of love isn’t for everyone. Just for Lefou.

 

Lefou and Gaston’s relationship works though, if only because Gaston learns from him. He learns just by standing by his side. He learns by sight and by touch. Or rather, he will learn, only when he’s older, and only when it’s the only choice left for him to do. Anyone looking at the two of them might say Gaston is the dominant one in the relationship, that Gaston is stronger than Lefou. 

 

Lefou, himself, may believe that too.

 

Meanwhile, Gaston is throwing himself in the line of fire, and Lefou is here, sitting by the mailbox. 

 

Weeks pass like that. Letters after letters after letters. Lefou lives vicariously through Gaston’s words, and believes that one day, if he’s lucky and if fate allows, Gaston will come home. Lefou keeps the letters by his bedside, and reads them and reads them. Every night he dreams that Gaston is home, and every day he works for the idea that Gaston is and will always be safe.

 

Months pass, and Lefou becomes used to being alone with his mom and the smoke from her cigarettes. Gaston writes about his day, the sights he sees, and rarely of battle. Lefou believes it’s because he doesn’t want to upset him with tales of blood and gore; he’d be right. But at the same time, Lefou feels gnawing curiosity. Is Gaston safe? To what extent is he hurt? Is he afraid? 

 

But he can’t think like that. He waits for the next letter, and he carries on.


	8. Chapter 8

_~~ Gastt  ~~ _

_      G a s t o n, _

 

_ I blame you for nothing, and love you no less. Your doing what you can to stay alive. Never forget that. God knows I dont. _

 

_ I worry about you. thats al i do with my time. you want to know what im up to? worrying. Lots and lots of worrying.  _

 

_ Be safe. please? for once? for me? _

 

_ and i know. i know we never talk about love because i never know if its allowed. at open invitation- isnt it obvious?  _

 

_ I love you, Gaston. I always have. It’s only ever ben you. _

 

_ I miss you like crazy. I think about you and don’t stop thinking about you until i go to sleep, and then i dream about you. _

 

_ If you ever make it through this, i want to be with you. It’s all ive ever wanted in my life.  _

 

_ What do you want me to say?? Your all i can think about.  _

 

_ If you ask for me to write about what’s going on there’s only one word to say: you _

 

_ If you ask me what I love there was, one day, some time ago, an extensive list. But now, today, since the day you left, there’s only been you on that list. You’re all i love. All i have room for. Okay? _

 

_ Please come home. Please be safe. I love you. I’ll always love you. _

 

_ Lefou _


	9. Chapter 9

Gaston gets shot while fighting in Africa; it shakes his body and rips through his spirit. He falls to the ground as men carry on forward. Vivacious and gruesome, it prickles at his skin. It’s nothing serious, he can tell that much. But it hurts. His hand grasps at his side, and he tries to get his hoarse voice to work.

 

“Hit,” he rasps, and turns his body over, hiding under the spray of gunfire. 

 

A man next to him kneels and takes in a shaking breath, too. Gaston knows him, though not well. They pass in the fields and in the tents though without much conversation. His name is Stanley.

 

It’s hot. The sun is merciless. Stanley calls for medical, and another soldier helps him to the tent. Gaston’s breathing is rapid and sharp as he tries to keep conscious. The world wants to tip over, but Gaston is nothing if not stubborn. He stays awake while a doctor assesses the wound, poke and prod and mend. Stanley stays there, eyes wide and desperate. He isn’t old, can’t be older than Gaston. 

 

“I’m going to be fine,” Gaston assures him, voice strong and unwavering. “Flesh wound.”

 

Stanley hardly looks appeased.

 

The doctor is talking to someone else, pointing in Gaston’s direction. 

 

“What are they saying?” Gaston makes out through his teeth, shifting uncomfortably on the cot.

 

Stanley takes a few steps closer, makes like he wants to say something; but then the doctor comes back and addresses Gaston.

 

“You’re to be moved to another facility in France,” the doctor says. “There’s nothing more we can do here. You’ll heal better there.”

 

Gaston nods shakily up and down. He thinks of Lefou, and how he would see him soon. That’s the rule, right? Wounded and you go home? His heart stutters in his chest, and he sees Lefou’s face in a blurry haze behind his eyelids. He can’t wait.


	10. Chapter 10

_Gaston,_

 

_Do you have a favorit color? if so, ive forgotten it. My mom is painting the walls today. an ugly yellow color. you dont like yellow do you?_

 

_im always thinking of things you may or may not like, sort of of like family planning. if we were to ever get a house somewhere, or just live in a similar neighborhood, then its good to be prepared, you know? would you? want that? living near me, or with me? in all honesty, i think about it every day. you coming home, and living with me forever. is that possessive? wrong? unwanted? say the word and ill stop all of this. i want you in any way that youll have me, even if that's just in these letters._

 

_tell me about your day. what are you up to?_

 

_L_


	11. Chapter 11

Gaston was right to think the injury was nothing serious, and wrong to think he would soon go home. By the time he had healed, the allies were winning the war, and Gaston is reassigned to a post in France as a prison guard. The cells are cold, yet not as cold as those they hold. Gaston looks among the prisoners and sees the worst of Germany’s soldiers. Soldiers who killed women and children, tortured innocents, and denied some their rights as human beings. 

 

He doesn’t know how to treat them respectfully. He doesn’t want to, and a lot of times he can’t bring himself to.

 

He stands on guard, a dull ache in his abdomen, and stands like stone. He thinks of Lefou. He does nothing but think of Lefou.

 

Soon, he thinks. Soon. The war will be over and done, and he will see him again.

 


	12. Chapter 12

_ (Gaston comes home on a Monday, the same day he left. Lefou stands at the door of his home, hands shaking and tears welling in his eyes.  _

 

_ This is no dream. This is no fantasy. And finally, Lefou embraces Gaston, holds him tight and buries his face in Gaston’s shoulder.  _

 

_ “You’re the one I want to grow old with,” Lefou says, because he can’t keep it in anymore. “And I waited so long to tell you I love you.” _

 

_ Gaston grins into Lefou’s hair. He tightens his hold, and says, “Worth the wait.”) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a weird writing style? oh well. sorry!!!! I hope you somewhat liked it! Comments are 10/10 appreciated !!! find me on tumblr at @cinqerella :)


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